Dark crystalline wings swept in deadly arcs, every swing cutting down countless lives and dyeing the falling rain a deeper shade of red.
Each torn body, each organ scattered across the blood-soaked ground seemed to feed something. From those wings, a dark, smoke-like substance spread thicker and wider with every kill—a suffocating fog of corruption swallowing the battlefield.
Adyr didn't notice. He wasn't thinking. He was enjoying it—the slaughter itself. And just like him, his Malice was feeding too. Growing wilder. Expanding faster. Every second he kept killing, it grew more, beyond control.
Because this time, he hadn't held himself back.
The monster inside him—the bloodlust he usually forced into silence—he'd let it loose. He'd allowed his dark aura, his grim Presence, to merge with the spreading Malice without limit.
